Trixie Archer's Blog, page 10

A Pain In the-

There’s a beat that hap-hap-hap-en-ing right now.  Can you hear it?  Even though you might be curious, I hope that you can’t.  The sound-pound-pounding may be invisible to most, but as for here it takes me over on a regular basis.  Cool right?  Not so much.

Along with the sound, there’s a bit of pain and discomfort involved trialing from my right sinus, behind my eye and straight up to the top of my head.  I’ve had this with me for years…I know it’s common to many but this painful ride has a theme song and that music won’t stop until the monster decides it’s over.

When the Kelly Clarkson song “Since U Been Gone” became popular, I adopted it but not by choice.  Unfortunately, without mercy I can count on the sound being rekindled time and again.  When the tempo changes and she bellows with high energy, “Since you’ve been gone,” I’m literally reeling in agony.  Every pounding heart beat, every boom at the top of my head accelerates to her voice.  I wince in pain, “please stop…please-oh-please just stop!”

There’s no “off” button to press, there’s no plug to yank from an outlet, there’s no headphones to toss across the room…there’s just her voice playing in repetition over and over again. 

The song is a good one under normal circumstances, but as a theme song to a headache…no.  Ice packs, a dark room, a damp cloth, adjust my pillows here and there, begging, pleading, bartering and yet the beat goes on.  Eating protein, not eating at all, a little bit of food, a little bit of caffeine…and then my stomach complains adding a base to the rendition of misery.  Scrambled eggs...scramble me insane.

I’ll spare you the details but let’s just say it often shifts from bad to worse and it isn’t over until everything spills away…and then silence.  Deep breaths, calm, remnants of “what was” slowly echo to the past.  The memory from the battery of song dwindles away until next time…if only there wasn’t a next time.

The many over-the-counter pain relievers are good in theory but seldom do they work for me.  I need a song removal app for my brain.  “Poof,” Ms. Clarkson would magically disappear from my memory card and then no more headaches, right?  If only…if only “Since U Been Gone” would simply stay gone, but it won’t. 

I imagine sometimes my head splitting open and a doorway is presented during the relentless tune.  What if the hours during a headache we carry a unique opportunity to access certain abilities…what if we could travel through time or read minds or pick winning lottery numbers?  I believe the problem lies within the song…the beating is so overwhelming who could possibly manage to think somewhere on a different path? 

The only real thought that comes to mind is “stop, please-just-stop!” 

Imagine waking up in a time warp as years trickle away.  I see myself crawling out of bed and padding down the hallway to the kitchen when I was in grade school.  My dad would be at the table sipping his coffee moments before he headed off to work.  My mom would be standing at the counter packing several lunches.  White bread lightly buttered with a thin slice of minced ham.  What is minced ham anyway?  Maybe as a grown up I really don’t want to know…it was the great mystery of meat.

I was always in a rush to leave for school, putting on the blue plaid uniform, a child’s prison clothes.  It was a funky pleaded skirt with an attached jumper.  I wore a white blouse and a pair of shorts underneath just in case the wind was blowing in an upswing.  There were knee length socks that itched and regular dress shoes.  I opted for something with a soft rubber sole because I’ve always had flat feet and the playground for recess was the solid of a parking lot.

Breakfast was nothing spectacular…typically my choice was toast with a bit of peanut butter…but you know what?  My mom would take the time to make it for me.  She always carried the warmest smile.  Fast forward many years and I strongly suspect after being a mom myself that the pleasant she wore came from knowing she’d have a few hours to herself…to accomplish a truckload of work without kids underfoot.  I’m guessing my grin was similar!  I smiled and waved as my children waved back from their seat on the school bus as it carried them off.

I love my kids, just the same as my mom loved me…but there’s a moment, a moment when Kelly Clarkson falls silent and the beat ceases to pound, when tranquility prevails.  Peace with a dash of possibility, no pounding head...the tempo resets with sunshine and a rainbow of flavors.

In the moment of calm we return from “what was” and face “what is.”  Stormy weather, snow, rain, sleet, dust, wind, blue sky or overcast…we embrace life and appreciate the silence….until the next time when we’re forced to live “Kelly” all over again.  We conjure “since you’ve been gone” and wait for the end of the song or the channel to simply change.  Thank goodness it does too, thank goodness…power off.    

The Skill of Iron

What if a person only has a certain amount of words in them?  I mean, what if while writing a story there’s a creative pool within that is slow to drain?  I dare to consider… This week was tremendously productive as far as the current book is concerned, but as far as my blog, I’m suffering from a case of “empty word syndrome.”

A lack of “saying” is foreign to me.  Ask anyone who knows me personally; I’m always one for conversation.  There’s always something new, something interesting, challenging, beautiful, curious, and inspiring…I see it, I feel it…I talk about it.  This week however, it seems as if the oomph within has been depleted.  The spring in my voice seems to have rusted and it creaks with every syllable.

I could mention the story at hand.  As I’ve noted before, it was my daughter who posed the idea of taking something that I had begun years ago and spinning it in a new direction.  So, the story begins with a “clunk,” the clunk of an iron skillet…which is a notion based on real life events.  Thank you Aunt Matilda!  She was pushed too far and she stood her ground all with the help of her iron skillet.  There was a solid “clunk” and then an immediate “thud” …and that was that. 

I’m not saying a person should go around defending themselves with an iron skillet, no…but I guarantee she never had an ounce of trouble being bullied from the moment of impact on.  It was a brilliant outcome, and just from hearing her story I’ve never quite looked at our iron skillet the same again.  No argument needed, just holster an iron skillet and if not for a weapon, it sure does well to provide some kickin' fajitas.

Channel change…This morning I awoke thinking about horses.  At first I believed horses were necessary to my story but after some research I learned that depending on what time of year a person traveled the Oregon Trail, horses might have been impractical.  I might have mentioned this before but the problem with livestock was how to feed them.  The landscape made it difficult for horses to graze so oxen were a better choice.  Imagine being pulled across the country by a team of oxen.  I’m sure it would seem as if a person could travel more efficiently if they simply walked. 

In all honesty, I might just trade in my car for a wagon and some oxen.  I’ve been having a bit of difficulty behind the wheel under certain conditions.  I think (ahem, yes I’ll admit it) because of my age, my hormones are amuck.  Hot flashes, panic attacks and during those moments, I’d rather be anywhere but behind the wheel!  Air, give me air…cold wonderful air.  Short trips I’m a-ok….long journeys, not so much.  Is there some way to fast forward past this time of transition?  If only.

I truly enjoyed the book (yes I read the book) “Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Café.”  I think Fanny Flagg eloquently described the “I’m too young to be old and I’m too old to be young” gut of the beast.   Mid life is about slowing down, starting over, accepting and embracing…looking back, looking forward and the great redefining of self. 

Unfortunately, in today’s world we’ve become youth obsessed.  That’s okay if you’re young and fit into the mode of “hip.”  The truth is; youth no matter how hard a person tries to keep a tight grip, well it all trickles through the creases of your fingers anyway.  Minutes, hours, days, months, years…bing- bang-boom…fast forward.  You wake up; look in the mirror and scream, “what the heck happened?”  Forget plastic surgery…who wants to have their face so tight that they’re set in a constant surprise?  After all, every line, crease and wrinkle is a tribute to a life well lived.  It’s time to stop allowing others to tell us what’s beautiful and begin to show the world what actually is!  It never was about “the outside in” but “the inside out.” 

The truth is; the only way for us to move past what society deems as “hip” is to work on a re-write.  It’s time to spotlight the magnificence of wisdom, the richness of life experience and carry an iron skillet even if simply in spirit “just in case” we need it.

I for one am thrilled to have this opportunity to offer a bit of middle aged perspective… whether it’s real or imagined, fact or fiction, truth or dare…it is all simply me being me.  Now does anyone know of an oxen dealership in the Chicago region?  I think at this point in my life that would be the best way to travel.

Thanks for checking in~ 

~Trixie Archer

In-Between

Cottage 215 along the west beach transformed from no-vacancy to available in as little as forty five minutes.  The layout was familiar, but the accent pillows on the sofa along with the floral design on the draperies had been changed to a complimentary hue of green.   When the door opened, I could tell in a glance that my stay had been terminated.

Two weeks.  I had been away from the rental for nearly two weeks.   Even though I had paid in advance and was a half vacuum bag late for check out, someone in housekeeping decided to make way for the next round of guests.  So they did.

A teenaged girl with a mouthful of braces smirked from the doorway.  Granted I was a sight with my hair windblown and askew, however, that did not excuse her lack of manners.  The fashionable sarong, the leather flip-flops that cost double than the pair she was wearing should have combated the “I’m better than you because I’m young and you’re not” attitude, but it didn’t.  The girl had “rude” down to a science with the hand she kept resting on her hip as she shifted her weight from side to side to the lift of her right eyebrow that she maintained.  This all complimented her pasted expression of annoyance with the hint of a pinched nose and all.

If I were her age or even her size, I probably would have decked her one.  Little Miss Snoot was the last thing I needed especially after the challenges I’d faced along the way.  I imagined her snobbishness transforming to shock on impact as she slid across the tile floor.  She’d land in a heap as I reclaimed the space that had been mine a few hours previous.  If this was a story, it would have happened that way, but in real life I couldn’t use my fists to teach anyone a lesson in etiquette.  Instead, I opted to hum a few bars to calm my nerves.

“They collected your junk and tossed it into a dumpster,” Miss Snoot hissed.

If I had my brain working at full capacity, I’d have given her a verbal lashing.  She had an air about her, a recipe of sour laced with an arrogant poison.  It was obvious she took great pleasure from breaking the news that my things had been thrown away and the accompaniment of the door slamming in my face empowered her even further.  How anyone could raise such a spawn from hell was beyond my understanding.

You may be wondering what on earth happened that would render such an irresponsible act so that I’d lose all of my belongings in such a way?  Well, that’s a good question.  The truth is I had been unforeseeably detained.  If one were to tie a string from beginning to end…the in-between was all about the story and the creative way I surrendered to a challenge so as to gather realistic information.  Research.  Yes, that’s exactly what happened, research…or was it stupidity…or a dash of both? 

A few days into my trip, I carried my laptop to the café as I did every morning while traveling on location to write.  I needed a mocha double espresso grand with a half stick of cinnamon for good measure.  Did I say I needed it?  Well there was a bit more to it than that…I was addicted and craved the rush.  It was the fuel that fed my words.  Caffeine buzz…locomotion...full steam ahead. 

 

I glanced up as travelers came and went.  I used them for random descriptions as needed.  The chance appearances offered me a variety of clothes, demeanors, stances, accents and hair styles.  I often took snapshots of truth for a descriptive smorgasbord and then leaned into the plot.  I borrowed from others what I lacked in ability to create.  I selected pieces and bits from those around me.

As I gazed towards the customer waiting at the counter, I typed:  “Lena Mansfield was a sturdy woman.  Her biceps resembled ironwood, thick and bulging from heaving packages.  She worked overtime in the shipping department of the local meat packing plant and was awarded employee of the year for a decade running.  During her youth she was considered beautiful but that was before the realities of misfortune had taken a toll creasing her unwavering optimism into a constant frown.”   

I was working on character development all right, but it seemed to be moving in a painful “hit or miss” fashion since business that morning was slow.  As my attention waivered to the obvious mistake in grammar, reality tugged at my sleeve.

“Are you a writer?”  Miss Reality asked.

I gazed up, startled by the imposition, but at the same time intrigued by the curiosity lining her ordinary face.  Actual conversation since my arrival had been limited to choosing food, checking in with my literary agent and the occasional pleasantries exchanged in passing… so to have someone break through the protective wall mortared with words threw me into a tailspin.

I smiled and nodded yes politely.

“Have I read any of your books?”  She wondered.

I shrugged my shoulders.  “I write under the pen name of Bernadette Pillbox.” 

“The Pillbox Author?”

I nodded.

“Wow,” she replied grinning from ear to ear.  “I’ve read many of your tales except, I must admit, I haven’t actually bought them…the library’s about all I can afford at this point in my life.”

“That’s okay,” I replied.  “They buy my books and you read them so…I still benefit from your support.”

The woman smiled in slight so as to acknowledge my appreciation.    

She slid her dark rimmed glasses up the bridge of her nose as she mentioned, “I didn’t care much for Cassie in your last story.  She was a bit too much of a know-it-all…and always correcting those around her was off putting.”

I chuckled.  “I based her personality from one of my sisters or actually a combination of all three intermingled.”

“Do they know you do that?  You know…use their personalities for the characters you create?”

I shrugged my shoulders.  “I’m sure they see elements of each other but I believe there’s a hesitation to admit their personal flaws, so I’m safe.”

The woman nodded.  “By the way, I’m Erma Leigh Jacobs.  My friends call me Jake.”

“Glad to meet you.  My name in the real world is Hester Sue.  I go by Sue for obvious reasons.”

“Why Bernadette Pillbox…it doesn’t do you justice, it fact, it’s ridiculous…”

“That’s exactly why my agent insisted.  People remember unusual and if a person has their own unique style when writing, it all equals book sales…or so I’m told.”

“Do you ever get tired of it?  The writing stories…the inventing life instead of really living it?”

I fought the urge to express outrage at the suggestion that I didn’t have a life but instead needed to invent one.  I took a deep breath, counted to four then let her insult roll away.

“I see myself as an entertainer.  My stage is the computer screen before me and the possibilities for plot are free fall for imagining.” 

“But some of the things that you’ve come up with in your series…as if…I mean have you ever tested if a person could cut through a zip tie using the sharp point of an earring?”

I shrugged my shoulders. 

“Hasn’t anyone ever called you out on the far-fetched aspects of your stories?  I mean even your action scenes are a bit well…unbelievable.”

“It’s just fiction; it doesn’t have to be accurate, just intriguing.”

“The book “Ham Sandwich Alley” comes to mind.”  “Really?  It was well...”  Erma began a fake cough while grinning sheepishly.

“Oh?”

“To be blunt, I think you’ve underestimated the intelligence of your audience.  I mean, forgive my disrespect here but there’s no way someone could possibly live to tell about half the things you pose.  …and then there was the box tucked into the rafters with the broken pickle jar filled with money and the glass that was used to cut through the rope.  Why would anyone move from that house and leave a jar full of cash behind?  I mean in real life that would be the first thing anyone with an ounce of common sense would pack.”

“Well,” I said feeling my cheeks flush with embarrassment at her unarguable point.  I forced a smile.  “I think I could use someone like you on my “malarkey” team to point out such inconsistencies.  My editor never mentioned…  Though most everyone who follows my stories claim they are highly enjoyable and my books keep selling…so why fix what isn’t broken?”

“While that’s true, I think you’ve lost touch with what is possible versus what is implausible.”

I closed my laptop for I suddenly lost my appetite for the written word.  All want suddenly became deflated, all because of the logical argument that Miss Reality pointed out.

“What are you working on now?”

“I’d rather not say.  It sort of jinxes the process and if I lose momentum, I’ll find myself rolling curlers onto a bald head.”

Erma Leigh nodded as if it took her a moment for my superstition to register. 

“I can see that I’ve upset you.  I didn’t mean to…really.  I adore your writing and I look forward to the next book.”

“Thank you.”  I said wondering if her “looking forward to” had more to do with finding things to nitpick rather than enjoying the intended escape.

“Let me buy you another coffee.  It’s the least I can do.”

“No need, really.  It’s getting late.  I should probably be on my way.”

Erma Leigh stood and headed to the counter.  From the distance of three tables over, she turned to face me then smiled as if she was saying something without actually saying it.  “I insist.”  “You drink a double espresso mocha grand with a half stick of cinnamon, right?”

I nodded while wondering if this woman was who she appeared to be...and if our meeting was simply by chance.  All I could think of was Annie Wilkes.  It was as if Stephen King had predicted the eventual crossing of paths with a fan that all writers should fear.

 

Erma handed me the beverage.  I thanked her graciously, faked a sip then headed on my way. 

It was an hour after dinner as I sat on the front porch of the cottage typing away that Miss Reality appeared once again.

“I hope you’ll forgive me for interrupting...”

I glanced at my cell phone wondering who I could call for help on the island.  The truth was; the only place that had enough reception to make a call was at the center of the bathroom which didn’t help my predicament.

I wondered if I could use my laptop as a weapon.  I could close the screen and in an instant, pelt her across the head.  The blow probably wouldn’t kill her but it may just startle her enough for a clean escape.

Erma cleared her throat as she began, “you see, I had an idea this morning when I read in the “gossip” blog on the Internet that you were visiting the island.” 

I held my breath to conceal the apprehension that was building within me.  She had orchestrated a meeting. 

“Yes, I’ve read everything I could find about you and your routines.  I knew you’d be at one of the coffee shops on the island.  I just had to find the right one and then I was sure we’d meet.  You see, I’ve had this crazy notion ever since I read your first novel.”

“Oh?”  I released my breath not realizing that I had been holding it far too long. 

Fast forward. 

As fate would have it, I ended up forty five minutes late to check out from the resort, two weeks later and everything that I had carried with me onto the island was lost forever…everything that is, with the exception of the string of events that rested along the in-between. 

My laptop, twenty eight chapters of a well written action adventure, my clothes, toiletries, purse, cell phone, cash…all of it, gone.  I imagined the middle section of string that was slowly unraveling.  Those delicate strands that Miss Reality methodically severed, eventually snapped, transforming my perspective and my life forever.

So, you’re probably wondering what she said to convince me to abandon my cottage and follow her like I did.  Just imagine for a moment…just imagine.

All day, everyday, the same routine played over and over again.  Schedule this, tick-tock, laundry in, write, write, write, laundry out, fold.  I arrived on the island.  The tide rolled in, the tide eased out, and life was passing me by while the keyboard moved beneath my fingertips.  Erma Leah or as I’ve knick named her “Miss Reality” offered me a chance to live what I write and then to write what I know.  Admittedly, I barely escaped all in one piece…but I did. 

Just imagine…  Now, use the comment section beneath this blog to help me figure out what happened. I know I made it through, but I don’t remember how.  Miss Reality kept saying, “plausible versus impossible…” 

I suspect the “Pillbox Series” shall never be the same again.  Please help me tie together the in-between?  My future depends on it….or rather my sanity depends on it.

Thank you,

Hester Sue aka Bernadette Pillbox, author. 

Postcard

Hello~

If I had mailed each and every reader this postcard last week, it would probably be arriving with today’s mail.  So, let’s play pretend and sidestep the typical, “Dear _______;  Having a wonderful time, wish you were here” formalities and get to it.

My daughter joined me during her spring break for a week of “down time.” With mild temperatures on our side, we were able to visit a pair of county parks to become one with nature. 

It was a good week too including great food, many conversations and plenty of pictures.

While we were hiking towards the trail to begin our walk through the woods, a strange flock of geese appeared overhead.  I’m always one to add digital images to my ongoing collection so I began to snap, snap away.  I found it unusual that they were not flying in their typical V formation but didn’t think much about it at the time.  Imagine the thrill later when I realized the geese were not geese after all, but migrating sandhill cranes!  They’re only in our area for a week or so at best while  traveling north, so to capture them in flight was rather exciting.

All in all, it really was an excellent visit with my daughter and one I'll carry in my heart for a very long time.  Not only did we enjoy the great outdoors, we seized the opportunity for some shopping.  Five days with her and I was exhausted physically and financially.  What a way to go!

Anyway it’s back to life and reality here.  I’m rolling up my sleeves now to continue the project at hand.  Unfortunately, books are unwilling to write themselves. 

Thanks for checking in!  See you next week.

~Trixie

     

 

Speak Easy

Warning:  words can be dangerous to one’s health, use with great care and caution.  Seriously.  In today’s world with social media being what it is, a misspoken word or an “oops, what did I just say” post can bring on an unimaginable fallout.  Then you’re known as the person who said:  “#$%$#@,” and your reputation is toast. 

The internet is a place that coexists with the real world and everyone is connected.  It’s a virtual recreation room to where most escape the pressures of the everyday.  Look about during lunchtime in the big city, after a picnic at the small town park, in the waiting room at the doctor’s office.  Everyone has their smart phone in hand, walking, sitting, living and breathing while navigating a personal screen.  The internet is everywhere…but one wrong word and “bam,” you become the butt of all jokes…you become the poster child known for inappropriate comments.  You kick yourself too…until someone else mutters something that pulls the unfavorable attention onto them.

I remember back in the day when a fellow student of mine was put on the spot during a social studies game that our teacher invented to encourage our class to follow the newspaper.  Miss Honey would rattle off a variety of questions as each team would gain points using their knowledge of current events.  A young girl with all eyes upon her misspoke the name of a rock star.   Rock and roll wasn’t her thing so she didn’t know, so what. 

In the world of adults, not a big deal, but in the world of fifth graders, she became a target.  Her “oops, what did I just say” brought on ridicule for days if not weeks.  The boys who deemed themselves “cool” were the worst to her.  I felt great sadness for her plight as did many…because we all knew that we could easily be walking in her shoes.  Fortunately, she had our support in deflecting the fallout away from her.  It’s what we did, we had each other’s backs but on the internet no one is that lucky. 

That was one classroom of thirty people who she had to face.  Imagine Twitter, Facebook…and how things go “viral.”  It would be what that young girl experienced but amplified from a whisper to a shout worldwide.  Embarrassment, humiliation all with the brightest spotlight shining on center stage as the unfortunate person slides away into the shadows wanting nothing but for those careless words to disappear.  What happens to them after?  Do they live a lifetime of silence?  Do they throw their smart phones into the garbage and set forth free and clear of social media?

The thought of the “oops” is frightening.  I’ve always struggled with adhd to where many details are often a hair beyond my ability.  When I write I spend a great amount of time looking things up and making certain “familiar sayings” are used properly.  Ask my family, when I speak I lack eloquence.  I’m the rusty Studebaker driven down a country road without any shocks left.  I often laugh with them chalking it up to a simple brain glitch preventing me from conveying my thoughts like everyone else.

The “slowing things down” to communicate is part of the reason I enjoy writing.  I can navigate at a speed way below the limit and avoid all bumps in the road while making sure I have it right.  If only real life worked that way.  I imagine if we could take a moment to consider who our words might impact, who our “little jokes” might offend, we’d put on the brakes and simply change directions to spare hurt feelings and the world a verbal “accident.”

Why do we suffer from word speed?  Why do we drive our words so fast, putting them out there without considering the impact or the unintended double meaning?  I believe it all boils down to the “like” button.  Most have become obsessed with the instant gratification that happens when a bunch of people say, “yes, I get it, I’m with you…well, said!” 

Everyone wishes to be liked and admired.   When we see that something we’ve put out there has been appreciated…it’s a lift, it’s a high. 

“Do you do drugs?”

“ No, I’m addicted to saying things and being acknowledged with a massive number of “likes.” 

“Really?”

“Yes, no, maybe….who knows?”

“Like me” and it reinforces my quick wit and charm.  I’ll say more and take greater risks next time. 

There seems to be a cost for everything though.  One misspoken word and a flock of birds appear bombing the poor unfortunate person with more than they bargained for.  An umbrella is of no use…those words, we own them and they remain ours to carry until they lose power and fall into an inert pile of forgotten.

Consider this however, what if we took all of those quips and tweaked them so they made a different sort of impact?  What if we began to speak in a way that only spread good will towards others?  Compliments, lifts, happy thoughts…all geared for the consideration of other people…and what we conveyed was sincere, true and with the intention for betterment.  Would that even be possible?  The impact of a smiling word…and the words coming back around to us would be smiling too.

I know life isn’t all gum-drops and fairy-tales but what if it could be?  What if it all began with this blog today?  Can one person make a difference by what they say?  Can one thought change the world?  I dare to imagine.  I dare you to imagine…and then I say, speak easy with a smiling word…and let’s see what happens on the great turn about on Internet Highway.    

The Hue of Yesterday

This past week has been productive but in an entirely different way.  Before the weather had shifted to cold, I'd promised my son that I would take his room apart to “grow up” his décor.  Unfortunately, there were a cluster of obstacles between then and now.  For one, he was on a fall sports team and there were many games here and there and everywhere beginning mid summer with his conditioning team.  Adding to that, I was on a strict writing schedule and then of course fall cleanup with an overabundance of leaves to be dealt with.  So, I procrastinated…and then the holidays arrived.  “Tomorrow, tomorrow…there was always tomorrow.”

In the mean time, my son went about his business never complaining, always being a “good sport” about the pastel walls, draperies, and dilapidated area rug…of him being stranded in the world of “little boy.” 

To be honest, as I packed away the action figures that he spent years collecting…as I crated away the stories that we read together, recalling the day that he did this, the day that he said that…I felt an overwhelming loss.  He would never be that little fellow that he once was.  I felt sadness until I realized how the little boy from “way back in the day” would forever be a part of him.

The truth is, regardless of wall color, trademarked toys, glowing stars on the ceiling above, he grew up.  In a room that is for an eight year old, in a room designed for a teenager…days flip forward on the calendar.  One day last week, six days from now, we collect a pile of days, of years, of decades and who we are is not defined by what our wall color is or how much area a rug covers, it’s all in how we choose to live those days. 

What do we bring with us for our journey forward?  If we're lucky; happiness, love, connection, a testament to each other, memories, fun…a balance of good to outweigh the rough patches.  (and believe me, there are rough patches, there always is)

My son and I took a trip to the hardware store.  While in the paint department we studied the swatches and gazed at the numerous possibilities.  I asked him what he had in mind for a color scheme.  With great consideration, he weighed the many choices. 

“I don’t know, what do you think?” he finally answered.

I pulled a cream color that held a remarkable hint of morning sunshine to the base of it.  My son smiled at me then nodded.  “That IS nice,” he agreed. 

“What about the accent wall?”  I asked him.

He shrugged his shoulders as we once again considered the splashes before us.  “I don’t know, what do you think?”

I pulled out several squares keeping in mind the color scheme for the rest of our home.  The idea was for him to decide what would suit him though.  I was open for whatever he wanted.  He narrowed it down and needed to figure out which he preferred:  a muted green or an eggplant sort of color.  Either choice would transform his room.  Magic. 

In the end he went with the eggplant sort of color.  Against the “kiss of the morning hue,” it would be an interesting contrast.  Toss in the natural light from the windows and wa-la, his room, reinvented!~

So my son and I worked as a team.  We carried out every piece of furniture and began the task of updating his room. 

I’ve been painting a long time.  It was something that began when I was in high school and I had begged for a similar opportunity to update my room.  The work at the time was pretty much all on me.  I had never painted before so there was much prep work that needed to be accomplished.  I scrubbed the walls and ceiling; I masked just about everything and slid around with tarps underfoot.  The thing I soon realized was that I had a natural ability that my dad decided was to his benefit.  The simple task of painting my bedroom led to the painting of every interior room in my parent’s home to the eventual exterior, twice.  I guess it was the many art classes that I took which gave me a steady hand and an abundance of patience. 

To me it was never simply about slathering on the paint but instead, channeling calm into the walls.  I know it sounds a bit crazy but I believe attitude matters.  

Have you ever been around someone who is doing a task but they are angry and pitching a fit all the time while they are working?  Even after they are finished, that feeling of impatience, the belligerence from “doing” remains lingering in thick.  The negative energy is absorbed into the world around them.  Maybe it’s the memory we carry from exposure to the rant surrounding that task.  No matter how much we want to push it out of our minds, we will always associate that particular home improvement with cuss words, slamming things and frustration. 

So, my son and I worked as a team.  All and all everything went well enough but the best part of the whole process was the time he and I shared while painting.  We talked, we laughed and we bonded.  I showed him all of the tricks that I knew surrounding efficient painting.  I taught him how to use a roller with minimal splashes; I demonstrated how to use an edger that spares the need to mask the wooden trim.  He was a quick study too…but the thing that amused me the most is that while I needed to take an occasional break so as to recharge, he continued working.  He’d find me, point to his imaginary watch and say, “time to get back to work!”

All I can say is that if I had the energy of a fifteen year old, I’d be able to produce six novels per year and run a marathon all at the same time. 

While we were waiting on the paint to dry on Sunday, my son and I went on a shopping excursion.  We found an area rug with the exact colors to match his room.  From there we drove to a furniture store to purchase a new headboard and frame.  We had to say goodbye to the bed that resembled a race car.  (I’m just kidding, he never had one…but that is how it felt.)

The finished room was well worth the effort.  I learned something important too while working with him.  We carry memories forward from years ago sure, but there is also a great possibility for more to be made today and in the future.  Sometimes we have to say goodbye in order to welcome the chance to say “hello.”  …and I learned to never try to use a desk to stand on instead of a sturdy chair or ladder because “ka-boom” at my age is not the same as falling “ka-boom” at age 17.

That pretty much says it all.  Have a great week!  I’m not sure if I’ll manage to accomplish much towards my next writing project (the Oregon Trail story) over the upcoming cluster of days.  My daughter will be home from college for spring break.  She has a “to-do” list a mile long…too many things for the short allotment of time…as always.      

A Luna Tick

Every morning at approximately 6:02, Peggy Miller stumbled out of bed.  She managed fifteen stomach crunches, two yoga stretches and stepped onto the scale before hurrying to the shower.  Peg brewed freshly ground coffee as she poured herself a bowl of cereal.  Standing at the center island in her kitchen, she clicked her pen and listed the many things that she needed to accomplish after work. 

It was Thursday.  She took note: “clean out the refrigerator, empty all of the garbage bins and roll the main can to the curb for garbage pickup.”  Peggy would save much time and energy if she would simply laminate her lists from the many weeks previous, but by doing so, she would break the routine of planning for the day.  She embraced the process of “planning” for it was something she did ever since she was a young girl. 

The heat kicked on breaking the still of her home.  The cabinet closest to the floor thudded for the register had a leak that flowed into the enclosure.  As Peggy opened the upper cabinet to retrieve her favorite coffee mug, she reveled in how organized and perfect it all was.   All contents were stacked in alignment, cups, plates, drinking glasses, mixing bowls…her environment was carefully planned to maximize efficiency.  A smile pursed her lips for she knew everything was as it should be.   

Today she could “predict” for it was set in duplicate of the many days running before.  There was no room for variety; there was no tolerance for variation.   There was just Peggy and her routine of existence.

Peg prided herself on the ability to follow directions to the T.  She was programmed to do exactly what was expected, to scrub the floor from left to right, to always take what she learned in school as a standard so as to never create, change or invent.  When it came to following the leader, she did.

The color scheme of her home was set in a middle tone of gray.  There was never a commitment for individuality; there was never a need to impose any sort of color. 

Her clothes matched her desire for living a practical lifestyle.  She purchased everything in sets of three taking into consideration the accidental spills, unforeseen rips and buttons which often seemed to fall off just as she was about to leave for work.  Although most were the same earth toned color, the styles differed for each day.  The only change was in the sleeve length and weight of material according to the season.  Peggy preferred wearing darker fabrics for the threading seemed to be more durable than lighter tones.

A neutral color also worked to best describe Peggy’s personality.  She carried no opinions one way or another.  Many people were put off by her indifference…and thus, her phone seldom rang.  If one were to compare her to similar in the animal kingdom, the chameleon would work best to describe her tendencies.  She blended into the background instead of being one to take charge and stand out.

Peggy took great comfort in knowing what to expect from moment to moment.  Her family although kind to her face, was harsh and critical of her behind her back.  They nicknamed her “Pegboard Shrew” which was a dig at her mousiness and her need to make lists. 

On Thursday morning, Peg left for her job following the same path just as she had taken for the past fifteen years.  Before driving away, she checked to make sure the garage door was making a proper decent.  Admittedly, she was a bit distracted.  She thought of the end of the month books that would need to be tallied and the many responsibilities for keeping the pet store afloat.  Without paper, she began devising a “to-do” list. 

For the most part, she enjoyed bookkeeping.  Her job was the perfect mixture of challenge and predictability.  The numbers were all about balance and the manner for which they were calculated remained constant.

As she drove towards the expressway entrance, she clicked on the radio for the morning news.  The weather was average for the season; however, there was a traffic jam but could easily be avoided by taking the local route.  This meant five minutes added to her commute but since Pegboard allotted extra time, the delay was not an imposition.

The day was simple.  The ten key calculator worked overtime as the total balances were added to the accounting program on the computer.  Everything proceeded without a glitch and before Peggy knew it, she was on the road heading back towards home once again.   Just before turning north onto her street, she thought of the salad she was going to have for dinner.  Spinach was her favorite and by adding garbanzo beans she felt satisfied from the proper amount of protein.  Everything she ate was weighed, measured and calculated.

To Peggy’s dismay, she realized her garage door was left wide open.  “What the heck?” Peggy mumbled.  Unfortunately, this was not the first occurrence.  Sometimes a leaf or a large insect would fly past the safety eye which would trigger the door back up again last minute.  Today seemed to be one of those occasions.

Since Pegboard never locked the interior door, she feared her peaceful existence had been invaded.  What was even more disturbing was how the clip that held the interior door open became wedged, leaving a gap and her kitchen exposed.  Critters or thieves, insects or snakes…anything could have meandered through.

With great apprehension, Peggy entered her home.  Everything seemed just as she had left it that morning without so much as a thread out of place.  She moved from room to room observing every detail to be certain all was as it should be. 

After a great sigh of relief, Peg went on with her day completing the task of garbage removal before settling down to dinner.  She clicked on the television in the main room and viewed her typical line-up of shows.  At approximately nine fifteen, she brushed and flossed her teeth.  In her mind she sang the “alphabet” song three times so as to make certain she was thorough and complete.  Side to side, up and down, front to back…it was always the same until “z” ended the regime.

With the television off and lights out, she went to bed.  Peggy had just settled in when she heard a foreign noise from somewhere in the house.  Scritch-scratch, scurrying… tiny footsteps…silence, rustling, stritch-scratch.  Her eyes widened in disbelief.  Darkness surrounded her and never before had she felt so vulnerable and exposed.  A moment later, she could swear the hinge on a kitchen cabinet squeak followed by a thud and a bang.  Heart thumping, adrenaline rush…fear…something was out there!

Pegboard grabbed a flashlight and her revolver from the drawer as she hurried to the kitchen to investigate.  She swung the beam from here to there and back again.  To her dismay, there was nothing out of the ordinary.  Peggy was certain she heard a noise; she was positive.  She took a moment of pause and fine tuned her hearing.  Just then a light swung from the left to the right along the wall.  The movement startled her…so much that she pointed the gun and fired at her cabinet.  The bullet ripped through the drinking glasses causing a chain reaction of force.  After the echo from the discharge fell away, Peggy reached over and clicked on the overhead lights.  When she opened the cabinet door she was shocked to realize every glass in that section had been destroyed. 

Stupid, stupid, stupid me…the light was from the neighbors’ car backing into the driveway across the street. 

Peggy set the gun on the countertop appalled by her trigger-happy reaction. 

A moment later, in the lower cabinet…in the space where crackers, cookies and munchies lived, there was something that began to shift and rattle.  With great courage she reached forward and flung the door open. 

Inside it appeared as if nothing was out of the ordinary.  “Surprise, where are you?”  Whatever was inside remained hidden in the shadows.  Peggy apprehensively leaned in to catch a better glimpse.  Again nothing was out of place.  With the belief that whatever it was had somehow ducked behind or in-between, she began to remove everything within that cabinet in an unbridled attempt to take control.  Her movements were fueled by panic and she set herself into a sort of autopilot type of action.  Of course she was not satisfied until the space became an empty cavity. 

As she was studying the contents lying in a heap before her, the ice maker in the freezer dropped several cubes into the tray within.   Losing touch with reality, Peggy opened up the freezer and began to toss everything onto the growing pile at the center of her kitchen.  She didn’t stop there as all contents within the refrigerator were added to the mess as well.  Still not satisfied she threw each and every item from cabinet and drawer, holding bin and basket.  Peggy stood above the mountain of rubble with her gun in hand. 

“Just make a move, I dare you!”  She said gazing about to the silence of her home.

It was then she heard the fluttering again.  Jumping from stance to stance, she lifted the gun and reacted in an animated sense of high alert.  She pointed the barrel at the walls, floor, television in the adjoining room…at the cereal boxes with healthy people smiling on the front.  It was then she realized the noise was coming from within the wall that separated the kitchen from the living room.

Turning on her feet, she rushed to the garage and pulled the sledge hammer from the hook above.  A moment later, Pegboard was swinging wildly into the drywall as chips and pieces rained onto the pristine ceramic flooring below.  Over and over again the hammer pulverized her home with force.  The most troubling fact was how the scampering noise continued to torment her.

“Just leave me alone!” Peggy screamed.

She hurried into the living room and toppled everything to the center.  Determined to be thorough, she wouldn’t stop until she found the source.  Her world had been invaded and her perfect life was under attack.  Who knew what had crawled into her home earlier that day.  It could have been anything really…gnarling teeth, rabid intent…she would not stand for it…she would leave no stone unturned until the creature was dealt with.  Show no mercy.

At twenty minutes until six Peggy returned to bed.  By this time she was physically exhausted and emotionally spent…so much that she didn’t hear the alarm clock when it resounded at 6:02.   She didn’t even notice the phone when her boss called wondering what had become of her.  In the space between morning and afternoon, Pegboard had slept away the reality of what she had faced in the night.  When the movement overhead had awakened her, she had no idea who she was or where she had been.

With her eyes slow to focus, she gazed towards the fluttering at the ceiling.  In the rim of light projected through the draperies appeared the most ornate green moth that she had ever seen.  A Luna Moth.  It was absolutely beautiful, a living piece of art adding color to the dismal gray of her surroundings.  Only then did she remember as she reached to the open container on her nightstand, that many months ago, she had found a rather large cocoon at the park.  Wondering what mysteries laid inside she collected the specimen, placing it next to her bed as a reminder that everyone and everything at one point or another must evolve. 

Peggy stood from her bed and opened her window.  She slid the screen to provide a proper exit…she allowed the invitation of freedom and warmth to coax the moth through.  In mere seconds, the wonderful creature took flight setting forth to realize the purpose of life. 

Peggy “Pegboard” Miller was forever changed by the invasion of color.  In that instant she realized how life was never about merely existing through countless lists of mundane. To truly live was to stand with courage against whatever fate tossed her way.   The destruction of her home was a small price to pay for a life-changing perspective.  Just the same as the moth needed to move forward to find a unique path, so did Peggy Miller….and so, she did.

There's A Catch

Over the past week I’ve been thinking a lot about fishing.  Maybe it has to do with the current research surrounding the Oregon Trail and the travelers needing to use the land to supplement their food supply, maybe not.  With the weather so frigid and snow covering the ground; putting my mind to past occasions of warmth and sunshine provides a bit of comfort. 

As I’ve mentioned before in my blog, my parents owned a weekend cottage on a small inland lake thirty miles from home.  The place was close enough to escape to and far enough to leave all of our troubles behind.  I spent many summers there.  After meals we were not allowed to swim for an hour after so as to avoid cramping.  During that wait, I’d grab my fishing pole and toss the line in search of the legendary Otis.  You’ve probably heard of Otis, for most every lake holds a whale of a fish.  He’s the one that got away and as most fishermen can attest, grows larger and more coveted with every telling.  Those who appreciated a great challenge kept their sights on that elusive fish, myself included.

I’d dig for worms; I’d use hotdogs or any scraps that were readily available as bait.  My reel of choice was a Zebco 202 that I kept perfectly tweaked.  My casts were strong, seeming to fly from shore towards the center of the lake in as little as 7 seconds.  I loved the way the line would shimmer in the afternoon sun and there was nothing like the initial click of the reel after the hook landed with a splash.  “Tick, tick, tick,” would echo as I turned the lever with great patience reeling it in.  If I was lucky, I’d feel the flutter on the other end of the line and it was then I’d say, “got-ya!”

The thing of it is; I never liked messing with fish to take them off the hook.  They were slimy and the fin on top would often cut into the palm of my hand.  Forget catfish, they were just plain frightening.  No matter where I was along the shore, when I caught a fish, any fish, I’d go running for my dad.  He’d always respond by saying, “oh let’s see what you caught this time.”  I can only imagine his annoyance because I was quite good at catching fish and I was always seeking him out.

There were occasions that I’d accompany my father on his fishing boat.  He preferred evenings after the lake had calmed down.  He knew this amazing spot to where he’d line his boat up with a certain willow tree on one side of the lake and a boathouse on the other.  He had this secret bait that we had to hand pick ourselves from the great Catalpa Tree back home.  The fish were a-plenty too!  We’d toss our lines and within ten seconds we were reeling in the plumpest bluegills.  Dad fished with two poles and if you added my one to the mix, we were navigating three at one time.  Those fish would sit in the holding bucket for my father to determine if they were “keepers” or “toss-backs.” We kept a running total for we didn’t want to be fined for taking more than what was allowed.

The worst part of the fishing experience came the following morning when we had to clean those little rascals.  Dad used the fillet knife as my sister Mary and I were on the scaling crew.  Mom provided smocks but the truth is; we needed hazmat suits.  Scales flew in all directions and the worst was when they flipped into our hair or landed near our lips.  My sister and I were both an absolute mess …and the stench; even a good scrubbing of soap followed by the best of perfumes couldn’t mask that truth.

As I matured, I finally concluded that the closest I wanted to come to fish was from behind a menu at the local restaurant.  So I retired my fishing pole leaving the possibility of Otis back at the lake for someone else to pursue.

Fast forward to just after my son turned six and I bought him his first fishing pole…a Zebco rod and reel for it was, after all, tradition.  We drove out to my parent’s cottage and there was great excitement as he tossed the line into the water.  Although with many more speedboats tearing around the lake, it took a lot more effort than I remembered.  My son caught his first bluegill that day, a four inch toss-back.  The smile on his face, priceless…the fish on the hook, waiting for me to remove…all-yuck!  I did it though, with a plastered grin, all for him just like my father had always done for me.

The parenting experience is funny sometimes.  In the past nine years I’ve removed more fish from hooks than I ever imagined possible.  My son is quite the bass fisherman too.  Have you ever placed your thumb to the lower lip of a large mouth bass?  Let me just say that they have small teeth that prickle into a person’s finger.  I typically say the same thing to myself just about each and every time, show no fear.  Sometimes when that fish jumps in protest, I’ll jump as well…and I always laugh.  Showing courage is something easier said than done since bass are intimidating creatures!  They likely eat small bluegill for breakfast and frogs for dinner.

Of course my son is old enough now that he can probably manage just fine on his own…but when it comes time for the cleaning, I stand alone.  My sister Mary is no longer at my side to help scale those fish; dad is no longer at the far end of the table using his fillet knife to carve out the meat ever so carefully.  It’s just me with my dad’s knife that was handed down soon after he passed away several years ago…it’s that and the memory of telling him, “I caught another one dad.”

My mom would always bread the bluegill and pan fry them.  Instead, I opt to use foil, a bit of lemon, herbs and the indirect heat of our gas grill.  Bass is quite delicious too, light and flaky.  What makes it all the better, are the conversations of “remember when” as my son reels them in.  “Mom, look at that beauty!” he’ll announce.  I find myself smiling with appreciation knowing that someday my son will better understand the great circle of life when he finds himself on the sidelines as his child reels them in.  A 4” bluegill or an 18” bass, it’s all good.  The greatest warmth is often found in the depths of my heart while considering the “fishiness” of summer from the distance of a cold winter’s day. 

Flu to Fly

On my way to writing the blog this week, I was struck by a nasty virus.  The good news, I managed to produce three pages towards my June deadline regardless.  The bad news, I wrote only the single chapter.  It seemed as if due to circumstances beyond my control, I was set on slow motion writing.

Chills, fever, coughing, body aches…at least I’m not in a wagon with the need to roll forward no matter what…with every bump, shake and squeak pounding away at my disposition.  My water is not polluted and I have medical help just a phone call away.  Thank goodness…thank goodness!

I have plenty of books and movies to keep me entertained as well as “take out food” for my family.  What would we do on the trail without a pizza delivery service?  That would be rough. 

I would miss the lack of billboards cluttering the landscape that announces upcoming rest stops and area attractions.  However, from what I’ve learned recently, there was signage along the Oregon Trail.  The words were more forthright and warned of death and peril. Some mentioned water quality and plants that were best to be avoided.  Many travelers’ carved their names into the boulders to simply announce “I was here.” Unfortunately, there were many grave markers as well throughout.  I believe most boards were primitive, simple planks with scribbles as the travelers used whatever they had available.   

Imagine the billboard market if someone sold advertising back in that era.  You’d have a long trail announcing the supplies available at the upcoming forts and trading posts.  That would be something, wouldn’t it?  The night trail lined with lantern-lit billboards announcing the world’s largest ball of twine or “gator man.”

Admittedly, I’ve been lucky over the past couple of years for I haven’t had the flu.  IF you are reading this and are feeling under the weather as well, you have my sympathies.  This really stinks!  My wagon has a broken wheel and I have no means to fix it at the moment.  I’m just lying in a heap waiting for the ills to pass, waiting for the oomph to travel onward.

I watched the movie “9 to 5” today.  The goofy classic is something that has followed me all along…it’s my “under the weather” movie that helps me forget my troubles if only for a little while.  Everyone should have a movie as such up their sleeve for this purpose.  You know something that is entertaining and if one happens to doze, it has been viewed so many times there is no missing important details.

That was exactly what I did today…I hung out with Dollie, Jane and Lilly, remote in hand, heating pad on my knees and I dozed.  I made home-made applesauce by cutting up my daily apple, adding a slight bit of water, some cinnamon, one teaspoon of honey and set the stove to simmer the ingredients.   The hot apple was the perfect snack too…pie without the crust…sin without regret.  The warmth soothed my throat and was quite satisfying.

Monkeyshine approached a couple of times with a curious look in her eyes.  “So does this mean we won’t be playing in the back yard at all today?”

“Sorry pup, it’s too cold and I’m freezing even while wearing an extra layer of clothes in the house.”

…and then the cats jumped on board.  “Hey…hey you…how much longer until Sunday?” 

My sister donated a crate of cat food that she and her better half had purchased for a stray that was frequenting their country home.  The cat moved on and they were stuck with a great amount of food, so my feline’s won the gourmet food lottery.  As a special treat, I’ve been opening a can, splitting the food into equal portions and presenting it to Betelgeuse and Meows-a-lot as a special treat.  Sunday is their feast day. 

I must say, those critters are quite intelligent.  Last weekend as a test to see if they realized what day of the week it was, I offered them their typical dry food.  Would you believe they refused to eat and followed me around the house looking for their canned food?  They knew it was Sunday!  It wasn’t until I complied that they gave me some peace.

On a side note, I’m wearing a turtleneck.  It’s the only time that I appreciate something over my throat.  It keeps my neck warm and with a bit of luck it’ll aid me in a speedy recovery from this bug. 

With tissues in one hand, hot liquids a-plenty, cell phone within reach, remote, the research books that I have been reading in regards to this current story…I’m patiently waiting for this wave of flu to fly.  No whining here…it was bound to happen and now all that I can do is hunker down, visit my doctor a.s.a.p. and look for the best in the many sunrises ahead. 

By the way, if anyone is reading this from a warmer climate outside of the Midwest, could you kindly spare some warm to the Chicago region?  The outdoor thermometer seems to be stuck on freezing “leaps and chances” mid-air once again.  A nice warm up filled with sunshine and promise would go a long way not only for body, but for mind and spirit as well. 

Thanks for checking in and I’ll see you next week.

~Trixie

A Spring Break

As Rachel and Gabe paused along the Platt River, the remaining hues of daylight filled the sky.  A copperhead was curled on a chunk of granite with the last warmth set to dissolve moments after the scattered beams descended the trees.  The snake would soon be off to wherever it was that copperheads lived when they weren’t terrorizing the earth with poisonous intent. 

The other wagons circled around in the clearing as we devised a makeshift corral to keep the animals from… ringing.  What?  Hold up a moment, that’s my phone…   There were no cheerful ring tones back in 1849, no cell towers, no smart phone apps, nothing…not even a crank telephone with an operator on the other end.  What the heck?

“Hello?”  Rhonda said in a pleasant voice from her desk twenty miles away.

“Hi,” I responded as I quickly scanned the page in a feeble attempt at keeping my place so that once the phone call was over, I could immerse myself back into the story at hand.

“My garage door broke, can you believe it?  The spring went ka-put.”

“Oh, I’m sorry…can we talk later?  I’m sort of in the middle of something…”

“I see,” Rhonda said with disappointment lining her expression.  She was a friend in need and I was after all, placing her venting time on the shelf.

I glanced through the paragraph even though such conversation was tempting me away.  I did my best to fight the guilt that was overpowering me.  Back to the story, back to the story…don’t lose it…you must work through that final thought…keep the momentum.   After all, I set a June deadline to have my latest book finished so remaining on schedule regardless of fire, flood or power outage was important. 

“It’s okay, I have a few minutes,” I mumbled as I surrendered to the magnet of her need to talk.  “Did you want to tell me about your garage door?” 

“Yes.  It was horrible.   I’d had pushed the button just as I slid into the car and BAM!”  The door fell back to the ground leaning on a slant as it trapped my vehicle inside the garage….so I had to call work and explain why it was that I’d be late for my job.”

“Oh how dreadful.” I replied.

“Yeah.  Three hundred twenty five dollars and I made it into work just after lunch missing half the day.”

“Well…that’s how luck goes sometimes…it happens.”

“Yeah except after work my back tire was flat.  It turns out a screw from the spring repair must have flipped to where I ran it over on my way out of the garage…so, yeah the domino effect…a busted spring and a flat tire.”

“Well, that stinks.” 

“Tell me about it.”  Rhonda said in agreement.

“Take comfort in the fact that misfortune happens to the best of us.”

“True except when I returned home after having the tire plugged, the remote no longer worked to open my garage.  Somehow the frequency was knocked out of whack.” 

“Oh come on, you’ve got to be making this up.  No one has that much bad happen all at once,” I said.

“It gets better…remember when little Drake lost his house key at school a few months ago?”

“Yeah.”

“Well I had the front entry re-keyed and failed to put the new one on my keychain…so I was locked out of the house and had no other choice but to call a locksmith.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said.

“No, I’m not.  It was horrible…another wad of cash out the door to simply help me back through the door.”

“Surely the rest of your evening was better then…right?”

“Yeah.  What more could possibly go wrong?  It was all smooth sailing after that…except Drake refused to do his homework…but that’s another story in itself.”

“I’m glad.”  “Listen, maybe next week we could meet up for lunch.  I’m sort of in the middle of writing at the moment.  I’d love to talk more but I’m stuck on a trail back in 1849.”

“That sounds exciting…okay.  Maybe Wednesday?  I’ll be in touch,” Rhonda said.

“It’s a date,” I said in agreement.

Just as I clicked my phone and my attention fell back to the screen, Monkeyshine entered my office wagging her tail.  I thought maybe if I began typing again, she’d understand that I was in the middle of a story so as to wait.  Nope, her nose began to nudge my elbow, pulling my arm away from the task at hand.

“Let me guess, you need to go outside?”

Stupid question.  The dog scampered off in the direction of the exterior door.  “Okay buddy…I’m coming…no problem.”

A moment later she was tearing across the back yard, hot on the trail of Rudy Snide the Squirrel who was known to taunt all of the dogs in our neighborhood.  The fluffy creature made it up a utility pole and was shaking her tail in an obscene gesture that only animals perceived as rude.  Monkeyshine began to bark as if to say, “I’ll get you next time you evil critter!”

I closed the doors and returned to my desk.  I re-read the working chapter re-submerging myself into the story.  I could feel the breeze on my face, I could hear the whispers of travelers in the wagons surrounding me…I could even imagine the wafts of smoke from the campfires which triggered my nose to plug.  Conversations were rising from the setting as the main characters were beginning to materialize once again.  The great expanse of sky was transforming into night as many stars appeared touchable overhead. 

My hands slid back onto the keyboard as I was finding the “zone”…until…until the most annoying meow in the history of meowing became audible.  Betelgeuse. 

My cats are not allowed in this section of the house and yet I have one rebel cat that believes such rules don’t apply.  I closed my eyes and held still with the hope that she’d turn around and head back to where she came from. 

The thing about cats…no matter how much you scold, praise, reward, put them back, chase them down, well they have a mind of their own and will typically do as they please regardless. 

“Meow, meow…meow.”  Translation:  Mom, where are you?  It’s lonely upstairs and you haven’t given us any attention since lunch.  Why don’t you put down what you are doing and hang out with us?  We miss you. 

I love my cats but sometimes... 

“You’re not supposed to be here…this is dog territory but you know that right?  I believe that is EXACTLY why you’re here…because it’s forbidden.”

“Meow,” she whispered coy as I understood her to say, “How can you shoo me away, I’m so cute and loveable…see?”  Betelgeuse began to purr as she circled my feet.

I picked her up and placed her to my shoulder while gently patting her on the back.  “Oh cat sometimes….you’re such a challenge to me…a real bratty cat…but I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

I walked her back to where she was supposed to be and laid her down with her sister.  Both cats gazed at me with amusement as I hurried from that section of our home, closing the door to prevent further interruption. 

Just as I returned to my computer, the phone rang once again.  Caller ID told me that the number was unfamiliar.  I did my best to ignore the interruption as I re-read the last paragraph.  I took a deep breath so as to focus.

Think 1849, dusk, an entire day of traveling is behind you…dinner is now being prepared on many open fires in the great surround… a mingling of enticing food smells… except you’ve been busy taking care of the nitty-gritty at home, answering the phone, letting the dog outside and then a rascal-cat invaded your camp.  Dinner…everyone is working on dinner except what are your plans? 

“What are my plans?”  I questioned aloud.  My stomach registered “empty.”  What’s do I have in the refrigerator?  I could go for a snack to carry me through…something healthy though…yogurt or a spinach salad perhaps?”

“Gabe, Rachel…I’ll be right back, I promise.”  As I told them, they gazed up from the page before me and nodded.  “Sure,” they said in unison.  Did I catch disbelief in their tone?  I hurried back to the stairway making a direct line towards the kitchen.

With yogurt in one hand and a spoon in the other, I plopped into my chair and re-read the chapter for the fifteenth time.  Some ideas came to mind just as I heard the dog scratching for me to let her back in.  

“Grrr.”  I stood once again to allow Monkeyshine to join me.  She assumed the position waiting ever so patiently as I wiped off her feet.  Taking five steps at a time she ran into my office and posed herself while licking her chops.

“You want a treat right?”

She lifted her paw in a way to indicate “you have that right!”

I unscrewed the lid to the dog biscuits container and gave her the command to “take it nice.”  With a happy wag, my dog rushed around the corner and began to chomp away.  If only life was like that for the rest of us, chasing squirrels and eating dog biscuits with an occasional scratch behind the ears.  Oh a dog’s life!

I made the decision to save my work and to set my alarm for three in the morning.  No one will bother me at that time…it is the window of opportunity that I am able to focus and write.

From there I busied myself with mundane chores.  Laundry, vacuuming, picking up, organizing…and during that time, the cats were fast asleep, the dog was content on her pillow and my phone was not ringing.  “Grr,” is what spilled from my lips.  I imagined how much I could have accomplished if I had stayed on task.   

“Goodnight Gabe, goodnight Rachel…see you both tomorrow, bright and early!” I clicked off my computer putting them to rest once and for all.

With a bit of luck I will meet up with them once again.  I’ll join the wagon train as they further themselves along the greatest journey of their life…from Independence, Missouri along the Oregon Trail to the California Trail to their final destination near Sutter’s Mill.  You see, I’m traveling with them, all the time while sporting my pajamas, robe and slippers...yes, exploring it all safely from the great comforts of home.  California, here I come if only I can find the focus to carry me there.